The iron thumps, mothering the washing
in front of the fire tales.
Night turns it's back at the window
where the ceiling light winks goodbye.
Clock tock, iron thump, tick clock.
Cinders tinkle, the grate clinks.
The radio thrums the world
to sleep, eaten deep of the chair.
The stair curtain ruffled by ghost's
cool hand across the room.
The doors are closed,
the fire guard in place,
the ironing piled high
way up to bed,
out of time
out of day
out of tock, tick tock, tick tock ...